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The first time, the stranger got the wrong number; he was talking about things that had nothing to do with reality, and you pointed that out by asking him to check the recorded number against the number called. "Unknown number" with a voice that made your knees buckle in desire.
The second time, the stranger called it a repeated mistake, grinned slightly, and wished you a nice dinner. "Those baked potatoes look delicious," he said as you poked the golden-crusted slice.
The third time a stranger started talking about horror movies, you were looking at the photo of you last night.
The seventh time, you answer that horror movies are good, but Blade Runner and the trilogy about space and the mysterious Force are much more interesting than the man with the knife or the chainsaw.
The tenth time, a stranger promises as a joke to wrap your intestines around the chandelier as a Halloween decoration.
The eleventh time, a stranger interrupts an intimate moment. But does he?
In the ten previous calls you had identified a pattern, took into account past words about Halloween and waited like an obedient girl with a hand below your navel and apparently no underwear: on the fourth call you realized that it was better to be naked than to change the wet panties.The broadcasting grid offers the very films that the stranger was eager to discuss.
The landline cordless phone lights up with the coveted "Unknown Number" and you press the green button.
The stranger doesn't say any, you too.
"You're late," you say impatiently when the movie was interrupted by a commercial.
"Are you waiting for my call?" you hear a smile in that beautiful voice.
"Yes", you stimulate your clit in a circular motion and feel yourself getting too wet that you have to wipe away the excess.
"Our last conversation, I promised to cut you open," he says so extended, your mouth full of saliva in an imagine when you're licking the handle of a knife he'd use to stab you.
"I remember," you swallow and smooth your voice.
"And you waited," the hoarseness makes you go crazy and rub faster, anticipating an orgasm.
"Yes," you answer.
"Wait," he listens to the squelching sounds, "are you masturbating?"
"Yes," the vowel gets too high on the exhalation.
The man's moaning on the other side of the phone does something incredible, you feel the blood rush to your pelvis, and you wait for that high point of tension, after which your muscles will shudder, but you hear, "stop," and your fingers stiffen, leaving you disappointed.
"Why?" you whimper, because you were so close, literally half a step away from climaxing with the stunning voice of a stranger.
"Because you'll cum when I tell you to cum," you lean back on the couch and spread your legs wider.
"Yes, please, may I cum?" It's unbearable to feel the tension dissipate, making you sensitive to further touching.
"No," you remotely hear the zipper unzipping, but all you can think about is the fading orgasm, "not now".
"Please," you notice how pathetic you sound, pleading with a stranger on the phone.
"When I say "no," you stop whining like a needy slut," and you want a light slap to finish so you can feel the power of the words physically.
Your gut smolders in desire, your skin is like a bare wire — touch a sensitive area, and you will wriggle, stung by a simple action, with pleas for more, please, you want more, you want to shudder from excessive stimulation and fall apart in the hands of a stranger.
"Will you be a good girl or a naughty bitch?" at the last words the stranger breaks into a growl and raises his voice.
"I'll be a good girl," you gasp and your cheeks are getting red.
"Then let's set a few rules," you listen greedily to the rustles on the other side, listening to every breath and wanting to capture every exhalation, "one: you don't cum until I tell you to cum," your free hand reaches for your neck, "repeat."
"I won't cum until you tell me," you wrap your arms around your throat and squeeze lightly, imagining stranger's hand.
"Good girl," you swallow viscous saliva and wet your parched lips, "two: you only touch yourself the way I tell you, no improvisation," that voice does something incredible, "repeat."
"I follow your instructions and do not touch myself without permission," a man with that voice must be no other than the Devil himself, unscrupulously seducing weak souls.
"You're doing well for a slut who begged for the opposite," now you hear rhythmic squelching sounds on the other side.
"I was bad," you squeeze the edge of your T-shirt with your palm.
"Bad girls get coal in their ripped chests instead of their hearts," he says it so calmly, as if he had already punished a few, and you feel echoes of jealousy, "are you sure you were bad?"
"Yes," and yet you begged without permission, you don't want to test a stranger more.
"I like your honesty," he sounds like he's repeating your posture, and you're want to sink your teeth into his thin skin just to get closer to his vocal chords, "now turn the volume down to minimum, look at the screen and listen to me," you do everything as instructed.
"Touch yourself," he says.
"How exactly?" you ask.
You follow the instruction and enter the middle and ring finger of your right hand, begin to move slowly and speed up when you hear the growling "faster." He says keep going, and the state of a taut string that needs to be broken returt, you just need a bit, a little more...
"Stop." You howl in frustration.
"You're doing so well," he says, "what do you think about movie?"
"What?" you look at the screen as he said, but you don't perceive any action, only a voice — a stunning low voice — on the other side.
"Have you ever thought of a serial killer who fuck your face into the bed?" someone dies on the screen, a static in his voice uncharacteristic of phone distortion.
"Yes," there is absolutely no interest in the movie, you wait for permission to continue and listen as the stranger continues his measured movements.
"Who's the lucky guy: Myers or one of the Sawyers?" the mood is going away.
"Ugh, how can you think of them when there's Jason Dean," you really don't understand.
"Just a teenager? You disappoint me, darling," he exhales in a peculiar way, and you believe that disappointment, so you want the playfulness back, you want to dive further into the passion with the stranger's voice.
"Speaking of serial killers," he must have paused as no sounds could be heard on the other side, as if he didn't want to miss any continue, "there's one in my town: he walks around in black and wears some kind of Halloween ghost mask."
"What would you say to him?" the stranger comes to life and says with a gasp, God, how you want to kneel down in front of him and listen to all the sounds that voice is capable of.
"Don't kill me, please, I'll do anything you say," you say exaggeratedly high, mocking horror movie cliches.
"Trite," he knows about insincerity, too. The tone seems to get even deeper, "try again."
"It's embarrassing," you want to cover your face, but you remember that you have to look at the screen, where the credits of the movie are already on.
"You masturbate to my voice," he reminds you, "and who am I? Just a stranger who calls a girl on Halloween."
"God, okay," you agree to tell the intimate story, "I'll say," the voice on the other side says to stimulate your clit, "I want you to choke me while you fuck my face into the bed," you imagine how good it would feel to have a man whose desire takes another's life, "I want your hands on me," the blood must be embedded in his being, "I want your fingers inside me, and i lick them after," you moan simultaneously, "I want you to fuck my throat so deep that I'll remember it every time I drink water," now he speeds up and orders you to follow his rhythm, "I want you to cum inside me and keep me alive to come back and do it all again," the stranger tells you to cum, and you listen like a good girl.
In post-orgasm you loses touch with reality.
"Your wish is law to me," the call cuts off.